


time of the season

by gash_gush



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Blood, Butts, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Violence, Implied power dynamics, It's barely a story, It's porn, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Other, Porn, Warning: Strade (Boyfriend to Death), and it's kind of an important plot point, but there is a direct implication the reader has a vagina, butt stuff, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids including but not limited to, i came from tumblr, i marked this as noncon but i came here expecting sex so you decide for yourself whether it is, i tried to remain gender neutral, i'm gonna be blunt dear reader you're gettin effed in the a from the word go, implied master/pet, it's more like a description of ren's room, line breaks for style, or set of organs, saliva, so please be comfortable with the idea of having that organ, strade keeps you ending, vaguely dom!ren i guess, yes i did that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gash_gush/pseuds/gash_gush
Summary: You spend a cozy winter afternoon in Ren's room.Not that you have much of a choice.You decide you don't mind that much.





	time of the season

**Author's Note:**

> I mention a song in the middle of this, you can listen to any you think fits the description, but the one I was describing is called "Abyss" by Atrey.
> 
> Also, have fun reading all my commentary in the tags. I'm not sorry.
> 
> Edit: clarified some of the uh...logistics

You feel like you've been there for hours by the time you hear the door click open. You probably have been - maybe even the whole day, it's hard to tell. Before the sound snapped you awake, you had been staring out the corner of your eye at the calendar haphazardly thumbtacked to the wall above you. Today's little box had been filled in completely, black permanent marker bleeding outside the neatly printed square. Tomorrow's is the same. And the rest of the week. And all of the next two weeks, until the month runs out. Happy new year.

  
That oil slick spilling across the page, almost as if it had flowed out of the catgirl spreadeagle above it, was the only clue you had to explain why Ren wordlessly snatched your wrist when you came to bring him his delivery. Why he was ziptying your hands before you could think to react, spinning you around and quickly clearing his way to slam into you, abandoning his usual teasing and taunting.You imagine it must have looked like some kind of wrestling move as you both hit the pile of blankets on the floor.

  
He was slick, slimy already, but not enough that the shock didn't make you cry out; A sharp bark above his low, relieved groan. Really though, you were more surprised by how quickly the soreness grew on you. How quickly you found yourself pushing back, almost trying to mirror him.  


  
Your eyes roll down to the plastic bag full of Ren's now-room-temperature excuse to get you up here and you think about how most times, he even liked warming you up a bit. He liked making you beg him, repeating the lines he fed you. He only wanted to play tough guy, only wanted you to pretend like you didn't want it. And he was always so indicisive, but you let him shove and fumble your limbs into this or that position, flipping and rolling you over, probing every orifice one after the other until you were sure you'd end up with some kind of infection.

 

Today was different. Today, something took over that made him pick this one thing and stick with it.

 

 

  
Did he plan this?

  
You should have been suspicious the moment you saw the Instagrocer driver through the peephole. You know Strade always takes care of the groceries. He makes it a point to. Says he's "keeping up appearances."

  
And in the back of your mind, under the music (what is he even listening to? This music sounds like being railed with a steel pipe. The thought of it actually makes you blush, you sick fuck.) you think you can hear those heavy boots thudding up the stairs, almost like the sound's coming from inside a dream; like it's actually just your brain, generating static to cover up the constant wet slapping as he keeps bucking and thrashing, growing somehow more feverish each time he throbs and gushes into you, like he has something to prove. ...Maybe more like he's level grinding.

  
The fog slowly rolls around in your brain, an uneasy feeling beginning to creep over you.

  
No, that's just your leg falling asleep, you think. You could laugh, if your throat wasn't so dry.

But there was the click of the latch and -

  
"You up here, buddy? You got a package-"

The last syllable hangs there - abrupt, cut off. You're sure there's an echo, only you can't hear it over that warm buzzing in your ears. It's already a sauna in the small room, but you feel heat rising in your chest and your cheeks. Strade intently watches Ren pull your knees open wider, digging his claws into the joints, squeezing your back up against him, and you let in a slow, shaky gasp. His own labored panting ramps up into a shrill screech directly next to your ear before you feel him bear down on your shoulder, pressing his chest into your back, folding you up until you think you might have to pop your hip back into place tonight. You feel him straning his neck to reach unbroken skin, trying to shove the clammy metal collar out of the way with his face, his tongue probing and prodding your wounds, smearing you with your blood and his saliva. You flinch as he tears into the raw edge of an earlier gash. A rush of cold air from the hall quickly chills the sweat and warm streams of fresh blood running down your skin, mixing with the sticky congealed streaks that have collected along your torso, to join the mess the two of you have made between your legs.

You're surprised to see Strade hesitate, his mouth the littlest bit open - not out of surprise or anger, but something like bemusement, you guess. You watch the flush creep up from his open collar in sync with the tingling creeping up your leg and wonder if the right word is "chagrin."  
It's not.

  
Shit, your leg really is falling asleep.

  
He eyes the calendar as he reaches for his hip and -

 

 

 

\- unholsters his cell phone. You could laugh, if you could catch your breath. What kind of person has the capability to set up and maintain a secure, anonymous, sooper-seekrit-red-room snuff livestream and still uses a phone holster? This guy, you guess. The screen illuminates his face for only a moment, but the image sticks with you, like he's about to tell a really intense ghost story over a campfire. That might be the first time you've seen a genuine twinkle in anyone's eye. Fucker.

  
"Looks like it's the time of the season, hey?" ...He's the only one that laughs.

  
The phone and the little box bounce to the floor and he's already undoing his belt and you can see sweat and teeth and smell earth and motor oil and suddenly you feel like you've swallowed a very heavy chunk of ice and it burns and you ache but you can't breathe deep enough can't throw your hips hard enough can't stop shaking panting sighing straining -  
   
And Ren, who hasn't slowed, hasn't unlocked his jaw, slides one hand - the one that's not clawing in like he wants to rip a chunk off - up your thigh, and almost loses his grip as he spreads you open.

Presenting you to him.

That sly fucking fox.

  
Ren spits and hisses and bites down harder to make himself clear. He's cementing his place in the food chain. Second in command, the right-hand man. Look, I saved this for you. I waited, I didn't touch. I'm a good boy. I'm such a good boy, see?

  
The loyal fucking lapdog.

  
You could laugh if your mouth wasn't so full.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment  
> I won't know what worked and what didn't, otherwise  
> thanks in advance


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